Slayer(5)

My phone beeps. We avoid contact with the outside world. Paranoia is a permanent result of having all your friends and family blown up. But one person has this number and he’s the highlight of our tenure here in the forest outside a sleepy Irish coastal town. “Cillian’s almost here with the supplies.”

Rhys perks up. “Do you need help?”

“Yes. I don’t know how I’d manage without you. It’s absolutely essential that you come out with me and flirt with your boyfriend while I check over the boxes.”

The great hall of the castle, always chilly, is lit with the late-afternoon sun. The stained-glass windows project squares of blue, red, and green. I fondly pat the massive oak door as I step out into the crisp autumn air. The castle is drafty, with questionable plumbing and dire electrical problems. Most of the windows don’t open, and those that do leak. Half of the rooms are in disrepair, the entire dorm wing is more a repository for junk than a living space, and we can’t even go in the section where the tower used to be because it isn’t safe.

But this castle saved our lives and preserved what few of us are left. And so I love it.

Out in the meadow—which has finally recovered from having a castle magically dropped into the middle of it two years ago—old Bradford Smythe, my great-uncle, is sword fighting with horrible Wanda Wyndam-Pryce. Though sword bickering would be more accurate, since they pause between each block and strike to debate proper stance. The mystery of the Littles escaping is solved. Ruth Zabuto is dead asleep.

I watch her across the meadow to make sure her chest is moving and she’s only dead asleep, not dead dead. She lets out a snore loud enough for me to hear from this distance. Reassured, I follow Rhys to the path outside the castle grounds. I can still hear Wanda and Bradford arguing.

Cillian is on a scooter, boxes strapped to either side. He lifts a hand and waves brightly. His mom used to run the sole magic store in the whole area. Most people have no idea that magic is—was—a real thing. But his mom was a decently talented and knowledgeable witch. And, best of all, one who could keep her mouth shut. Cillian and his mother are the only people alive who know there are still Watchers in existence. That we didn’t all die when we were supposed to.

We haven’t told them much about who we are or what we do. It’s safest that way. And they’ve never asked questions, because we were also their best customers until Buffy killed magic. But even now, Cillian still makes all our nonmagical supply deliveries. Weirdly, online retailers don’t accept “Hidden Castle in the Middle of the Woods Outside Shancoom, Ireland” as a proper address.

Cillian stops his scooter in front of us. “What’s the story?”

“I—”

There’s a flash of movement behind Cillian. A snarl rips apart the air as darkness leaps toward him.

My brain turns off.

My body reacts.

I jump, meeting it midair. We slam into each other. The ground meets us, hard, and we roll. I grab jaws straining for my throat, hot saliva burning where it falls on me.

Then I twist and snap, and the thing falls silent, still, a dead weight on top of me.

I shove it aside and scramble to my feet. My heart is racing, eyes scanning for any other threats, legs ready to leap back into action.

That’s when I hear the screaming. It sounds so far away. Maybe it was happening the whole time? I shake my head, trying to force the world back into focus. And I realize there’s a creature—a dead creature, a creature I somehow killed—at my feet. I stagger backward, using my shirt to rub away the hot sticky mess of its drool still on my neck.

“Artemis!” Bradford Smythe runs up. “Artemis, are you all right?” He hurries past me, bending down to examine the thing. It looks like hell’s version of a dog, which is accurate, because I’m almost certain it’s a hellhound. Black, mottled skin. Patchy fur more like moldy growths. Fangs and claws and single-minded, deadly intentions.

But not anymore. Because I killed it.

I killed it?

Demon, a voice in my head whispers. And it’s not talking about the hellhound.

“Nina,” Rhys says, in as much shock as me.

Bradford Smythe looks up in confusion. “What?”

“Not Artemis. That was Nina. . . . Nina killed it.”

Everyone stares at me like I, too, have sprouted fangs and claws. I don’t know what just happened. How it happened. Why it happened. I’ve never done anything like that before.

I feel sick and also—elated? That can’t be right. My hands are trembling, but I don’t feel like I need to lie down. I feel like I could run ten miles. Like I could jump straight over the castle. Like I could fight a hundred more—

“I think I need to throw up,” I say, blinking at the dead thing. I’m not a killer. I’m a healer. I fix things. That’s what I do.

“That was impossible.” Rhys studies me like I’m one of his textbooks, like he can’t translate what he’s seeing.

He’s right. I can’t do what I just did.

Bradford Smythe seems less surprised. His shoulders slump as he pulls off his glasses and polishes them with resignation. Why isn’t he shocked, now that he knows it wasn’t Artemis? The look he gives me is one of pity and regret. “We need to call your mother.”





2


“HOW COULD THERE BE A hellhound in Shancoom?” Wanda Wyndam-Pryce’s tone, along with her pinched and furious expression, seems to indicate that it was my fault. Like I signed up to provide doggy day care and accidentally checked the “Unholy Hellbeast” column.